


Good Metal

by murderofonerose (atmilliways)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Crossover, Hooligans in the bookshop, Humor, Other, bebop
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 17:14:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21019355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/murderofonerose
Summary: Crowley couldn't get ticket to the death metal concert he wanted to go to, so what's the next best thing? Why, hijacking your angel's bookshop and demonically meddling with a tour bus, of course!Do anything... to meet Dethklok.(The GO MTL crossover that, to my knowledge, only two or three people have asked for.)





	Good Metal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seashadows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seashadows/gifts).

> This is set after the GO Armadeggon't and just after the MTL double-booking episode in season 3.

“Angel,” Crowley barked before the bookshop door had even had time to hit the wall and rebound shut behind him. “Angel, before you ask, it isn’t bebop. Don’t ask them if it’s bebop, don’t even  _ think _ the word bebop!”

The door had been locked, the sign in the window flipped to Closed, and Aziraphale was ensconced in one of his most comfortable armchairs. He didn't look up from the book he was perusing. 

Behind the unusually animated demon, the bookshop door hit the wall and rebounded shut. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said in a particular even tone that meant he was annoyed but trying to be good about not showing it, “stop saying ‘bebop.’” He licked a finger and used it to turn a page. “Whatever are you talking about, dear boy?”

“This place has about fifteen minutes to turn into the kind of bookshop that also sells coffee,” Crowley told him, and tossed somethings him. 

The something landed in the middle of Aziraphale’s open book with a considerable thump, and turned out to be a bag of Duncan Hills coffee beans, inferno roast. The angel frowned, hefted it in one hand, and snapped his book shut with the other. “Absolutely not.”

“It’s happening, angel,” Crowley called back, ducking down behind the counter. He pulled an espresso machine out of the ether and thunked it down next to the dusty till. 

“Crowley, we talked about this last night. We talked about how it would be very unkind to waste these people’s valuable time just because you couldn’t arrange tickets to some… melodious dying music you’ve taken a liking to.”

“It’s  _ happening _ ,” Crowley insisted. “We’ll also probably need Doritos. Oh, and you  _ will  _ want to move the more valuable editions to a back room, these aren’t the more discerning kind of clientele.”

“But—”

“You owe me, angel! Remember that time I arranged for you to meet Murasaki Shikibu?”

Aziraphale hesitated, then sighed. “Oh all  _ right _ .”

Ten minutes of reluctant bustling later, Aziraphale had found safer homes for the books he would least like to find stains on later. To him the shelves looked positively barren, but Crowley had assured him that few people who weren’t ravenous book collectors would see it that way.

While he’d been doing that, the demon had cleaned the front counter like… well, a demon. Gone were the dust and cobwebs and pieces of scrap paper with partially jotted down receipts (which was usually the stage where even the most determined book buyer would crumble in the face of Aziraphale’s relentlessly polite methods of subtle dissuasion). In their place were gleaming surfaces of wood, marble, and sections of glass cases that definitely hadn’t been there before, containing all sorts of pastries and sandwiches. There was even a large basket full of crisp bags. 

“Oh dear. You will put that back the way it was later, won’t you?”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Yeah, of course. Now shut up, it’s almost time and I have to concentrate."

* * *

_ Let the mind’s eye draw back for a moment, to take in a greater view of the surrounding neighborhood. Ease it to a point far enough above the tops of the buildings that the streets below stretch in all directions like veins, pumping with the lifeblood traffic of Soho. Take care not to go so far that they shrink to mere capillaries in the great body of all metropolitan London.  _

_ Stay fixed in time, however. It would not provide much more insight than to already have to drift into the night before when, shortly after vigorously sowing the seeds of temptation (on Crowley’s part) and divine ecstasy (on Aziraphale’s) in each other, they fell into a brief argument about a musical group that finished with both of them thinking they’d won.  _

_ Ahem. Where were we? _

_ Ah, yes. Pushing its way through traffic like a large black blood clot is the multilevel tour bus of an internationally infamous death metal band. It is, along with a fair number of other out of towners and tourists, off course due to some strategically placed traffic cones, a smattering of detours due to road summer work, and a few street signs having been covertly switched for maximum confusion. The driver has just taken what appears to be a convenient turnoff to avoid the current traffic jam.  _

_ As the bus draws even with a corner shop, the name  _ A Z FELL AND Co **ffee** , est 1800 _ in gently faded gold lettering above the door, the engine promptly shudders and grinds to a halt.  _

* * *

Five of the most important occupants aboard the massive bus stumbled as the vehicle shook itself to death. Hooded roadies were already scrambling or the honor of mopping up various spilt drinks. 

The sixth most important, not typically a part of the main spotlight but arguably just as famous in economic circles, was wearing his seatbelt and continued industriously typing on his laptop. Rather than an Apple, the icon on the computer was a stylized spiked skull, and it cast a red glow on the legs of his pressed suit. 

“Get someone to take a look at that,” the man in the suit said in a clipped American accent, sounding very much as though he had been interrupted in the middle of an important piece of business and wanted to get back to it before he’d lost his place. “It’s probably a belt failure, in which case we’ll need a new engine choppered in. Step to it.”

This had the same effect as a general snapping out orders, or a supernatural being snapping their fingers; several of the roadies disappeared to go make it happen. 

The other five were, as usual, arguing amongst themselves. 

“Pickles! You didn’t pour Fanta screwdrivers into the gas tank again, did you? Because booze ain’t diesel!”

“I run on it okey,” the red-dredded drummer retorted with a lopsided grin. 

“Thisch isch juscht typical,” another grumbled, while in the midst of carving a rude word into the nearest convenient flat surface. “I’m going to missch my schiatschu appointment, I juscht know it.”

“We ams all missing somethings,” snapped the haughty blond still strumming absently on his unplugged Gibson. “It ams what you calls  _ lunch _ , because all you dumbs idiot dildoes eats everything but my soy ice creams for fucking second breaksfasts!”

Beside him, the brunette with no guitar in sight his a just-emptied ice cream carton behind his back. “Yeah, seconds breaksflints!” he chimed with a similarly terrible grasp of the English language. 

“Guys, guys,” interrupted the first man. He stood imposingly in the center of the bus, black t-shirt and jeans still being toweled off by helpful servants. “This isn’t the time to point fingers about who ate what. This is the time to go out there and  _ get some lunch. _ ”

The man in the suit, who happened to be the band’s manager, looked up from his laptop. His heavy-framed glasses glinted with light from the screen, the reflection suggesting he’d called up an online map search. “Nathan, this is Soho. It’s not exactly known for its, ah, restaurants. I recommend we all stay here until—” 

“There’sch a coffee placshe  _ right there _ ,” shrieked the bassist, jabbing a dirty index finger towards the nearest window. “It schaysch falafel, booksch, and coffee, can’t you read?!”

Pickles the drummer rolled his eyes. “It says  _ axe fell  _ books and coffee, Murderface.”

“Brutal,” growled Nathan. “You know. Except for the books.” He surveyed the inside of the tour bus — lavishly decorated to mimic one of the many living rooms in the band’s private, castle-like mansion — as might a general preparing to address his troops. “Well I don’t know about you ugly humps, but I’m gonna go in there and get something to eat.”

“Who’s you callings ugly?” snapped the blonde, but he shrugged off his guitar and got up to follow. 

The rest of the band trailed along after, thinking, as often happened, with their stomachs. Their manager sighed, but dutifully closed and set his laptop aside and went to follow. At his discreet gesture, some of the lingering hooded servants followed suit. 

* * *

The bell above the bookshop door chimed, and Aziraphale had to bite down on the reflexive  _ Sorry, I’m afraid we’re just about to close _ that usually served to shoo customers away. He actually bit his tongue a bit when he turned and saw the first man in the door — a tall, hulking brute with long black hair and a craggy face that looked like it had been taken straight off a mountainside. 

This did  _ not  _ look like a person the angel felt comfortable having near his precious books.

The next intrud—  _ customer  _ that came in didn’t look as threatening at least. He had a skinny build, like Crowley’s corporation, but far less interesting hips. And he was unsettlingly tall. Ice blue eyes met Aziraphale’s gaze, and then the blond smirked and said, "Hellos dere… how ams  _ you  _ doin'?"

Aziraphale pursed his lips and shot Crowley a Look that, even compared to all the books still out in the open, spoke volumes. 

“Wowee,” said the third man to pile inside, craning to see over the shoulders of his slightly taller friends. “They gots lots of real cool sandy-witches here! And looks, Nathans, Doritos too!”

“Get the fuck outta the doorway you dildo-lickersch,” snapped the fourth. The bell above the door had never received such violent attentions before. 

“Will all’a you just  _ move _ ?” complained a fifth from somewhere in back — all that was visible was a flash of bright coppery hair. “Nathan, what’s the fuckin’ holdup?”

“All of you shut up,” growled the brute in front. He squinted through the hair falling across his face at Aziraphale. The angel had made the mistake of standing in front of the counter rather than behind it, where Crowley wore a maniacally pleased smile, and was therefore the first target of their attention. “Hey. Is this place like a fucking library where you have to whisper and shit?”

An interesting question. Even more surprising, Aziraphale reflected, that such a scruffy-looking, uncouthly dressed — a t-shirt, unwashed jeans, and boots,  _ honestly _ — would think to ask. He almost approved. Almost. Just not enough to revise his instinctive reply. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale said with a stuffy little nod, and wandered purposefully off to do some covert hovering from amidst the bookshelves. He was already starting to regret promising Crowley that he wouldn’t smite any of them. 

Without the inhibiting presence of someone who, for all intents and purposes, looked and behaved like a librarian, the five men shuffled closer to the counter. It usually (and very intentionally) wasn’t much of a focal point of the shop, but Crowley had made it a star. The demon lounged against it in a vaguely proprietorial way, aware that with his counterpart having been chased off he was effectively in charge here. 

“Hi guys. What can I get you?”

Behind the band, the door opened one more time…

* * *

_ There are more forces in Heaven, Earth, and Hell, than are dreamt of in most beings’ philosophy. They range, of course, from angel to demon — but in between them are humans, and humans are far more inventive. Witches and warlocks are just the tip of the iceberg, and more alchemists have given up just a hair's breadth away from transforming lead into gold than have even knowingly tried.  _

_ So, you might think that Dethklok’s manager (and lawyer, and CFO, and de facto babysitter), Charles Foster Offdensen, is a perfectly ordinary human. His hair is combed back severely, his glasses frames practically scream “accountant,” and he hasn’t had a personal life for years thanks to the demanding rigors of his job. You might even think that he can, for the purposes of this story, be overlooked.  _

_ But you would be wrong.  _

_ How else do you think Crowley would be unable to miracle himself concert tickets? _

**Author's Note:**

> To Be Continued . . .


End file.
